Free The Firebug of Balrog County by David Oppegaard Page B

down. I popped the trunk and stared at the gas can. It looked so red and shiny, like fire itself.
    I picked the gas can up.
    Mmm, gasoline. The closest thing to liquid fire. Wars had been fought over it. Cars combusted it. It made the unholy world go round. I unscrewed the gas can and took a long, woozy sniff. I pictured Ox Haggerton sitting at the bar, drinking his beer and being all surly and shit. Calling me a pansy boy. Telling Butch he looked like a faggot.
    Didn’t he know a faggot was actually a bundle of sticks used as kindling in the burning of heretics?
    I took another whiff of gasoline and screwed the cap back on. I pictured Ox Haggerton sitting on his pile of firewood like the dragon Smaug, hoarding his precious gold beneath the Lonely Mountain.
    Fucking Smaug Haggerton.
    I started toward Old Man Haggerton’s house without closing the trunk, the gas can sloshing in my hand. I decided to cross the maze of tree stumps and avoid the lit driveway. It was like walking through a field of land mines that had already been detonated, annoying in a sloggy, tripping way. I had to walk with my head down, watching my feet. It wasn’t until I’d cleared the field and could properly raise my head that I realized that the boxy structure behind Haggerton’s house wasn’t a shed. It was the largest woodpile I’d ever seen.
    â€œHoly fuck.”
    I craned my head back, trying to take it all in. All the sweet, sweet stacked wood, piled high in neat little rows.
    And it would be bone dry, too. It hadn’t rained in Balrog County for weeks. The drought was all the local boys could talk about when they came into the hardware store.
    â€œSteady, Mack,” I whispered to myself. “Steady, old boy.” I took a couple of deep breaths and waited for the firebug to calm down. I looked at Haggerton’s house and realized the interior lights had gone out, leaving only the exterior porch light on. The gas can sloshed promisingly as I started forward again, circling around the back of the house like a good ninja, sticking to the dark and feeling my way forward. I cleared the house, crossed another fifty yards of tree stumps, and found myself at the foot of a pyromaniac’s wet dream.
    I reached out and touched a cord of wood, one among many covered in rough, dry bark. It felt as if I were stroking a mummy’s cheek.
    â€œHello there. I’m Mack. I’ve come to—”
    A round shape leapt out of the woodpile and dropped to the ground. I swore and jumped back, falling on my ass and dropping the gas can. A huge, very pissed raccoon chit tered at me, scorning me for my intrusion. Even in the dim light I could see it puffing itself out like a devil’s pom-pom, ready for battle. I scrambled to my feet and held out my hands.
    â€œSorry—”
    More angry chittering. For a terrifying moment, I expected the raccoon to jump at my face and claw my eyes out.
    â€œIt’s cool, man. We’re cool.”
    I reached into my pocket and pulled out my lighter. The raccoon watched as I thumbed the lighter and held the flame toward it.
    â€œSee? That’s fire.”
    Jesus, it was big. The size of a bull dog, really. What the hell was it eating around here? Elk?
    I took a tentative step forward. The raccoon chittered again, but with less certainty now, and when I took another step it backed away, watching me as it slinked along the woodpile.
    â€œGo on, man. This shit’s about to get torched.”
    The raccoon turned tail and ran off into the night. I exhaled loudly and looked at the house, praying the windows would still be dark.
    They were.
    I picked up the gas can and went around the woodpile, using the pile’s bulk to shield myself from Old Man Haggerton’s house. I could see a dude like Haggerton being paranoid, restless, and prone to the kind of night terrors that made a man leap out of bed and scream into the profound darkness of his country house.
    The